


Little Fire Starter

by peterparkr



Series: Febuwhump 2020 [6]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Peter Parker Whump, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Whump, febuwhump 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:33:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22621831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterparkr/pseuds/peterparkr
Summary: So Queens has a pyro. That’s fun.It doesn’t feel fun as Peter doubles over a few feet from the building and starts hacking up a lung.ORSomeone starts lighting fires and Peter takes it upon himself to stop them.(Febuwhump Day 6: Fire)
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Febuwhump 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620064
Comments: 18
Kudos: 306





	Little Fire Starter

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I'm trying to write 1k word pieces.

Peter’s on his way back from his patrol, only a few blocks from his apartment, when he notices a figure in the shadows of a closed store. He drops to the sidewalk and watches through the windows from across the street. 

The guy’s pouring liquid out of a large jug—the kind that little soccer kids drag around even though the containers are bigger than their heads. 

Peter dashes across the street. The door to the store is slightly ajar, so he tiptoes towards it.

The stench of gasoline hits him hard. It’s overwhelming—too much for his senses to handle. He opens his mouth, starts breathing through that instead, but then he starts to taste it. He pushes inside anyway.

“Hey, man, whatcha doin’?”

The guy turns to him. He’s wearing a ski-mask. Peter barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes. The lack of ingenuity of the criminals in this city can be astounding sometimes. He would kill to come up against someone like Kraven the Hunter again. That guy knew a thing or two about presentation. 

“What does it look like,” he drawls, setting the first jug down and then grabbing another.

“It looks like you’re about to torch the place,” Peter says. “But that would be illegal.”

“And breaking and entering isn’t?”

He has a point. “Well, it’s not _as_ bad.”

Peter leaps over the largest puddles of gasoline as he approaches the man. “So what’s the deal here? You have a problem with the owner or something?”

“Nope, don’t know the guy.”

“Okay,” Peter draws out the word slowly. “So your cool motive is—no motive?”

The guy shrugs. “I like fire. Watch this.”

He takes out a match, an almost blissful grin appearing in the mouth-hole of the ski-mask, and lights it with practiced precision. It happens so quickly that even Peter’s enhanced muscles can’t make it to him in time. The match arcs through the air and the man turns and runs in the other direction.

The whole place goes up in flames.

* * *

“What happened to your eyebrows?”

Peter slides into his seat in front of Ned with a sigh. “Officially? Cooking mishap. I’m thinking grease fire. Unofficially? Daily Bugle homepage. Third story down.”

He hears Ned’s fingers clack over his keyboard, then a few hums as he reads the article.

“Huh,” he says. “You’re going to die.”

The words are given the same inflection that someone would give a statement about the color of their shirt, or the temperature outside.

Peter half-turns in his chair. “ _Dude.”_

“I mean, we’re all going to die. You’re just going to die significantly sooner and probably much more violently.”

Peter frowns. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“No problem!” Ned grins and pats Peter’s shoulder. “I’ve always got your back.”

Peter shoots Ned a look of disbelief and turns back around. Ned starts snickering behind him.

Thirty minutes into class, he leans forward to whisper in Peter’s ear. “You do know that not all your cover stories have to make you look like an idiot, right? A cooking mishap, seriously?”

Peter lets his head fall forward, landing with a thud on his desk.

* * *

There’s a fire in an abandoned warehouse on Friday night. Another one in a bar early Saturday morning. Only the owner is inside. It’s an easy save. 

On Sunday, a grocery store burns to the ground. The fire starts right around the time when the whole city seems to be on their weekly shopping trip which makes it difficult. Luckily, Peter has some help from a squad of firefighters. Unluckily, he inhales a lot of smoke.

A text from Tony appears on his HUD as he’s swinging out of the building with the last victim.

 _So Queens has a pyro._ _That’s fun._

It doesn’t feel fun as Peter doubles over a few feet from the building and starts hacking up a lung.

One of the firefighters approaches him and awkwardly pats his back a few times. “You okay, Spider-Man?”

Peter nods and throws a thumb up. The claim is negated by his inability to get enough air, sucking in rapid breaths to try to compensate.

“Let’s get you some oxygen.”

“Oh—” Peter coughs a little.”I dunno—think I’m—”

Another text pops onto his HUD. 

_Take the oxygen._

Peter sighs. “Yeah, okay.”

He finds himself sitting on the back of a firetruck, mask folded up to his nose to make way for the oxygen mask and his legs swinging in the air. He takes out his phone.

 _Stop spying on me, Mr. Stark. I’ve got this,_ he types.

_It’s not spying. I’m protecting my investments._

Peter rolls his eyes. _It’s just a guy with a box of matches and some gasoline._

_And last time I checked, you weren’t immune to fire. Has something changed?_

He doesn’t have bullet-proof skin or indestructible bones either, but he’s still more equipped than most people to help out when something goes wrong.

He’s about to put the phone away when another text pops up beneath it. 

_Just be careful, kid._

* * *

One of the local news stations runs a segment on the fires. The host refers to the man starting them as ‘Queens’ Little Fire Starter’. Peter scoffs when he hears it. If whoever wrote that line had to actually go into the burning buildings, Peter doubts that they’d call the fires ‘little’. But, the rest of the name sticks. Everywhere Peter goes, the city is filled with buzz about the Fire Starter.

He gets a handful of first degree burns running through a wall of fire in an apartment complex on Tuesday. May looks like she’s going to cry when she sees them. They heal almost completely overnight, but he vows to be more considerate of his own safety.

He manages to stick to it on Wednesday, staying relatively unscathed at a gas station (big fire, lots of explosions, Peter hopes the Fire Starter doesn’t hit any more in the future) and then on Thursday at a mall. 

But, the plan goes up in—well, flames when a fire starts on the outskirts of a playground. It spreads quickly through the dry mulch lining the area. The jungle gym melts, trapping a few kids underneath it. Peter pries a section apart with his hands, creating a gap for the children to escape through.

His hands throb and pulse as their parents cry and thank him. He waits with them until the ambulances and firetrucks show up, struggling to keep any traces of pain out of his voice as he talks to them.

He winces through a stilted wave as they leave and then tries to bend his fingers. It’s a mistake. He gasps and presses them to his stomach, riding out the aftershocks of the pain.

Swinging is out of the question. He can’t reach the buttons of his web shooters or hold onto a web. He should be able to press his hands to a wall though, it might hurt, but he’ll make it home.

He jumps at the nearest building, but his hands don’t stick like they usually do. His upper-body falls backwards, until he’s perpendicular to the wall, hanging on just with his feet. He stares down at them, finding himself frozen in place. His vision becomes blurry after a few minutes and he blinks a few times to clear it.

He hesitantly presses both hands against the wall again, gritting his teeth at the sharp sting. They still don’t stick.

“Karen," he whispers. "Could you call Mr. Stark?”

* * *

Tony turns on the sink and gestures for Peter to put his hands underneath it. 

He moves them forward, keeping his eyes fixed on the wall. He’s only looked down at them once, right after Tony helped him peel the suit off. They were covered in blisters, bright red in some places, and a pale ghostly white in others.

He hisses when the cool water hits them, jerks them away from the faucet. 

“Well that does nothing,” Tony says, then switches into a more gentle tone. “Just for a couple of minutes.”

Peter bites his lip and nods, placing them back in. He squeezes his eyes shut and starts silently counting.

“I should have upgraded your suit when the fires started.”

When Peter glances over at him, Tony’s eyes are averted. He looks calm, but Peter can see the tension in the tendons of his neck. 

He finishes counting to 120 and then pulls his hands out of the water. 

Tony ushers him over to the table and they sit. Peter puts his hands, palms up, on the surface.

“When I stick, they get bumpy, you know? Little pointy bumps stick out.”

Tony nods. His own hands fidget a little. “Try it.”

Peter does. Tony runs a finger over the skin. It’s light, he’s obviously trying to be careful. It still hurts.

“Ow,” Peter snaps, ripping them away.

Tony’s cheek twitches once before his face goes completely blank again.

They sit in weighted silence as Tony wraps bandages around the burns. It gives Peter too much time to think. He should have been more careful, like Tony and May told him to be. Hell, even one of the firefighters told him to let them do their jobs. 

He can’t fully regret it though. At least those kids are safe. 

Tony finally eases the last of the bandages over his hand and stands.

“Hungry?”

It’s not much of a question—Tony’s already drifting over to the kitchen. Peter stares down at the white gauze, trying to figure out how he’s going to eat anything.

Tony returns with a banana and a granola bar. He holds them up and quirks an eyebrow. Peter nods at the granola bar.

Tony unwraps it. “You could prop it up between your palms if that doesn’t hurt too much, or your wrists.”

Peter chooses his hands, even though it’s painful. It feels more dignified.

He takes a few bites and then realizes that he doesn’t have much of an appetite, letting the bar drop down to the table.

Tony watches it fall, but his face doesn’t give away anything that he might be thinking. 

“You couldn’t feel the bumps, could you?”

“Well, I didn’t get to try for very long,” Tony says with a forced smile. “And you just burned them a few hours ago. There are lots of blisters—hard to feel anything really.”

“Do you think they’ll be able to stick again?”

“You heal fast.”

“Not what I asked.”

“Funnily enough, I don’t have any past experience with this sort of thing.”

Peter can’t remember what a neutral expression feels like. He keeps working the muscles of his face, trying to figure it out. He’s the clay and the sculptor, attempting to shape his own skin. It seems like an impossible task. He doesn’t know how Tony always manages to do it.

“I should have upgraded your suit,” Tony repeats under his breath.

* * *

Tony takes him back to May’s and tells her what happened. Peter doesn’t really listen to the conversation. He tunes into the street instead, catching some car horns and angry expletives of drivers. A dog barks just below the apartment. Peter has half a mind to go look at it out the window, but decides against it. May and Tony might think that was weird. 

It’s decided that he won’t go to school for a few days. Peter doesn’t have any part in coming to this conclusion, but he agrees with it. Everyone already knows about the ‘grease fire’ eyebrow incident. If he shows up with another burn injury people are going to think that he’s the Fire Starter. And it’s not like he can take notes anyway.

May helps him re-bandage his hands before he goes to sleep. She keeps looking at him, and Peter keeps avoiding her eyes.

“Say something,” she finally blurts out. “You haven’t said a word since you got back.”

That’s because there’s nothing really to say. Peter can feel that she’s still watching him, knows that there’s probably worry etched into the lines on her forehead.

“I should have been more careful.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Peter lifts his shoulders in a slight shrug.

She sighs and pats his hands. "I'm just glad you're okay."

Peter nods without looking up.

"Love you," May tries.

He repeats it as she leaves the room, then rolls on to his back. The shadows shift positions as the curtains by his window flow with the wind.

He thinks that he should be more happy. He saved those kids—none of them were severely injured. That’s his responsibility—to protect the people who can’t protect themselves—and he fulfilled it. And like May said, he _is_ okay. He's alive.

It’s just that his powers are what makes him special. Spider-Man gave him a purpose when he felt like having anything but. There’s no Spider-Man without the ability to crawl up walls and stick to his webs.

Part of him recognizes that he’s panicking too soon. Things just might go back to normal in a few days—he has no way of knowing that they won’t. He also has no way of knowing that they will. He’s afraid to hope.

His phone pings. He shifts onto his side, irrationally angry when he can’t easily reach out and grab it. He awkwardly maneuvers it between his bandaged hands and uses his nose to tap the screen. Tony’s name is at the top of the message.

_Even if it doesn’t come back, you’ll be fine. I should have said that earlier. Being an Avenger is about more than sticky hands. Lots of us don’t have those._

Peter flings his phone to the other side of the bed and goes back to watching the shadows. 

* * *

After May leaves for work, Peter shimmies into his suit. The material thankfully stretches around his swollen, bandaged hands. 

He walks up the side of a building and crouches at the top. Even before Spider-Man, he’s always liked to watch the city from above. 

An incoming call appears on his HUD. Peter assumes it’s going to be Tony, but Ned’s face appears on the caller ID instead.

Before he can even say ‘hello’, Ned starts rambling.

“So, I made a joke about you dying and that was in really bad taste because you could actually die so easily and now you’re not at school so please don’t be dead. I don’t know what I’d do without you and—“

“ _Ned,”_ Peter interrupts. “How would I have answered your call if I was dead?”

“Oh, thank god,” Ned whispers. “I kind of feel like I’m going to pass out from relief—that can happen right?”

Peter opens his mouth to answer, but he doesn’t get the chance before Ned’s talking again.

“Where are you, man? Can we have a new policy that you have to tell me when you’re not going to be at school if you’re, like, conscious enough to do so and stuff?”

Peter tries to flex his hands. They don’t move much. His fingers wiggle a little. There may not be many more instances where they’ll need this policy.

He forces himself to laugh anyway. It comes out hollow. “Yeah, sure.”

Ned’s silent for a beat too long. Peter squints at his HUD, the call is still connected.

“You don’t sound great—are you okay?”

“Yeah I’m good—I’m—yeah.”

“Oh boy,” Ned says. “It’s never good when you start speaking in palindromes.”

“Um.” Peter wasn’t aware that was something he did. “Do I do that often?”

“You stutter in patterns, man. Sometimes they make palindromes. Usually when you’re not being completely honest.”

“Oh—I—“ he almost says ‘oh’ again, but stops himself at the last moment.

“Although, I guess they might not technically be palindromes because the letters aren’t the same, but you know what I mean—like the same words—“

Ned’s voice fades from Peter’s awareness as he catches a hint of smoke in the air. He’s grown more sensitive to that particular smell in the last week—same with gasoline and burning plastic. All of them make him nauseous. 

His nose starts to twitch and he walks to the other side of the building, swiveling his head back and forth like a bloodhound. 

Ned’s still trying to work out the definition of ‘palindrome’. Peter cuts him off.

“Ned—listen—I’ve got to go. And not because I’m avoiding this conversation—just, something’s come up.”

“What? Peter, where are you?”

“I’ve got to go. Karen—disconnect.”

“Pet—“

“Sorry,” he adds, a second too late as Ned’s contact photo blinks off the display.

It’s harder to get to the source of the smoke than it should be. He can’t swing, he has to leap from building to building—and some are too far even for him to safely attempt, so he has to sprint down and then back up.

He speeds up the process when he can finally see the smoke. It’s billowing out of a window, about half-way up an office building. 

Peter leaps from the building he’s on to the ground and then jogs across the street and up the one with the smoke. He wiggles his arms into the gap under the window, uses his wrists to push it the rest of the way up, and then dives inside.

It’s immediately hot. The cooler in his suit is working overtime, but still not fast enough to counteract the effects of the flames. They’re everywhere, licking up around computers and stacks of manila envelopes. 

The smoke is already starting to irritate him, coating the sides of his throat. He coughs a few times and then takes a cautious step forward. It looks like the office is empty. Maybe everyone got out in time. 

“Spider-Man!”

The voice is the same as when Peter first met the Fire Starter, but this time, he sounds near overjoyed to see him. When Peter swivels toward him, the guy has the same ski-mask situation going on as before. 

Peter glares at him, hoping his own mask projects some of that anger.

“Aw, we’re not talking today? Last time you seemed like you wanted to chat.”

“That was before you lit up half the buildings in Queens.”

“Now that’s an overstatement—and you should know! You’ve been at all of them, no?”

Peter sniffs and crosses his arms. He tries to look around surreptitiously for a way to take this guy out. He probably should have had a plan before diving into a burning building without the use of his hands.

“I’m so pleased that you’ve taken an interest in me, Spider-Man. It’s fun to watch you swing around—the will he or won’t he of it all. So far you’ve always shown up! Saved every person, too. Congratulations on that by the way.”

“You’re insane,” Peter replies. “You’re going to kill someone eventually. This isn’t a game.”

The Fire Starter shrugs. “Agree to disagree. Now if you’ll excuse me, this was just the opening act.”

It seems like he might have taken some of Peter's mental notes on presentation. He could still use to fix the costume though.

Peter steps in his path, arms automatically posing in front of him as if he could actually use his web shooters. It’s obvious that they’re swollen and bandaged from their size and the lumpy pattern showing through the suit.

The Fire Starter’s eyes light up when he notices. “Why Spider-Man, what happened to you?”

He reaches out as if to touch them, and Peter flinches, taking a step backwards.

“Did I do that? Which fire was it?”

He feels anger ignite under his skin, as hot and powerful as the flames around them. He launches himself forward, kicking out with his feet. They connect with the man’s chest, sending him to the floor. It leaves Peter off-balance too, his hands sacrificing themselves to break his fall. He gasps as they hit the ground, and stays down for a moment too long trying to breathe through the pain.

The Fire Starter dashes past him. Peter rolls over with a groan and forces himself upward to pursue him.

As soon as he steps into the hallway, the bottoms of his feet land in a puddle. Peter grimaces; it’s like wearing wet socks. He looks down, realizing that the puddle is more of a trail, spanning the whole hallway. The Fire Starter is at the end of it, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, a lit match between his fingers.

Peter leaps just as the match starts to fall toward the gasoline, pressing his whole body against the wall. The hallway lights up, Peter’s back suddenly too hot. Smoke is everywhere. He presses his forehead against the wall, trying to suppress the coughs that threaten to rise up his throat.

Once the original roar of flames dampers slightly, Peter shimmies down the wall, still staying pressed against it, and shuffles down the hallway. He has to pause when he reaches the end, choking on the fumes. His eyes are burning even with the protection of the suit.

There’s a stairwell to his right. The Fire Starter has to go down if he wants to get out of this alive, so Peter uses his elbows to open the door, cringing at the heat emanating off the knob. That’s a lesson he learned in elementary school—if the doorknob’s hot, there’s fire behind the door. In this case, that means he’s going in the right direction.

There’s even more smoke in the stairwell than in the hallway. Peter coughs more as he steps inside. It kind of feels like he’s suffocating. Half of him contemplates taking his mask off, convinced it might allow him to get more air. The other more rational half knows that it’s the only thing keeping some of the smoke out of his lungs.

The fire on the stairs is growing. There’s no way Peter’s going to make it down them. He cranes his neck over the railing, looking into the gap in the middle of the staircase. The Fire Starter about four floors below, still running. 

It would be so easy with the use of his hands. He could crawl down the center. He bites the inside of his cheek hard and closes his eyes.

Then he formulates a plan. 

He jumps into the gap, pressing the web shooter of one hand with the top of the other, shooting toward the ceiling. He wraps his whole body around the line in a bear hug, jerking to a stop just a floor above where the Fire Starter is. 

The line spins idly. Peter’s head spins with it, and he probably has plenty of burns that he’ll have to worry about later, but he finds himself smiling. He feels like himself again—better than he has since he realized that his hands wouldn’t stick.

He leaps down the rest of the way, landing in a crouch on the railing.

“Hey, man,” he says, voice hoarse.

The Fire Starter doesn’t look very surprised, he just grins. “Isn’t this exciting?”

“You’ve got to stop saying stuff like—”

“Help! Someone help!”

Peter’s attention immediately diverts to the voice, but he still sees the Fire Starter clap his hands in delight out of the corner of his eye.

Peter spares him a disgusted glance and then runs out of the stairwell.

There’s a door to a group of offices that’s melted into its frame. A few faces are behind the window. They start screaming and waving when they see him.

“Back up!”

Their faces disappear and Peter takes a running start, busting through the door and landing in a slide that he hopes looks cool and not like the mistake that it was.

“Spider-Man,” one of the people whispers.

“Yes, uh, that’s me. Hi.”

Peter runs across the room, ignoring how constricted his lungs feel, and smashes the window open with a kick.

The streets below are filled with flashing lights. There are a few firetrucks, even more ambulances. 

He turns around. “Okay, I usually do things a little differently, sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to jump out the window.”

“What?”

“I’ll catch you. We don’t have a lot of time.” Peter points to one of the guys. “You first.”

He goes back to the window, points one hand at the nearest firefighter and uses the other to press the button. The web snaps the hat off the firefighter’s head and he looks up, bewildered.

“Hey,” Peter yells. “I’m sending some people down!” 

He nods to the first jumper. The man grimaces but steps forward, taking a deep breath before diving out the window. Peter shoots a web after him and pins it between his two hands before transferring it to the window sill. 

A few fire-fighters run over, helping the man down from where he’s hanging. 

Peter turns back to the others. “Okay, next.”

After all the civilians are out the window and the fire-fighters are detaching the last one from the web, Peter sends them a little salute. 

“Come down, Spider-Man,” one of them yells, gesturing with his hand.

He shakes his head, takes a deep breath of the fresh air through the window, and then runs back to the stairwell.

The Fire Starter is gone. Peter groans and then regrets it as it turns into a long coughing-fit. Staying in the stairwell isn’t going to make it stop—it’s too smoky. He stumbles down the stairs through it. 

He emerges on the ground floor, throwing himself through the door, hoping the air quality will be better on the other side. He almost cries when it isn’t, dragging in large gulps of air, but not finding much relief.

There are firemen all around, with big hoses. A few of them are carrying people to safety. 

One of them grabs his arm. “You’ve got to get out of here, man.”

“Did you—” Peter breaks off into another fit. “Did you get him?”

“Who? The Fire Starter?”

Peter nods.

“Our jobs to stop the fire, not the maniac setting them.” The firefighter starts leading him to the door. “Come on, this way. You did good, Spidey.”

“No,” Peter pulls his arm out of his grasp. “Gotta—find him.”

He dodges around more firefighters, going farther into the building. He can hear the one who stopped him following close behind him, shouting. Everything’s loud—the firefighters barking orders, the fire crackling, the building creaking as its supports start to melt. It’s disorienting. 

A large wall of fire erupts directly in front of him. Peter stops short, panting. He looks left and right, then back at the flames.

“You can’t go any farther,” the firefighter yells. “Come on back!”

Peter glances over his shoulder, opens his mouth to answer, but then there’s a sharp squeal of metal on metal followed by a snapping sound.

“Spider-Man!”

Peter looks up, sees the ceiling approaching him rapidly. He dives forward, through the flames, comes out on the other side with his suit on fire. He pats at it frantically, not caring that the motion hurts his hands. 

His path back is completely blocked, he can’t even see the fire-fighter anymore.

That’s okay. It’s what he wanted. He moves forward, holding his breath for as long as he can between coughs. It’s probably not a sustainable approach. His vision is going in and out of focus.

He almost doesn’t notice the Fire Starter.

“Spider-Man! I didn’t think you would—make it to the finale.”

He’s having trouble breathing too. Peter takes some comfort in that.

There’s a bonfire-like pile in front of the man. It takes Peter a few seconds to realize what’s stacked on top of it.

“Fireworks? Dude—”

“A real finale!”

He starts pouring gasoline on the bottom of the pile then walks backwards with it, spilling it in a winding trail. 

“You’re—not going to make it—out in time.”

The guy just shrugs. 

Peter runs for the pile, starts tearing it apart, shoving fireworks off and then kicking them as far as he can.

“It doesn’t matter,” the Fire Starter says. “This whole place is coated—in gasoline, and half of it is already on fire. When it all goes up, it’ll go up hard.”

Peter feels tears in his eyes. He’s not sure if they’re watering from the smoke and heat or from frustration and despair.

“Firefighters’ll—get everyone out.”

“They don’t have enough time.” He takes out his box of matches and runs a finger over them reverently. 

So it’s a fight for time then.

Peter jumps and kicks off the wall, throwing himself on top of the Fire Starter. He wraps his legs around his body to hold himself in place and fumbles with his hands, manages to shoot a web that directly envelopes his eyes.

The Fire Starter claws at the webbing. Peter takes the opportunity to twist his legs around, causing them both to fall to the ground, their limbs tangled together. He slaps at the matches until they slide to the side. 

Peter jumps up, landing a hard kick to the Fire Starter’s chin on the way, and runs to the box. He stomps on it a few times, plasters webs over it until he’s satisfied, and then staggers a few yards as a wave of dizziness washes over him. 

There’s a weight on his chest. It keeps growing. He slumps against the wall, trying in vain to get some of the limited oxygen supply in the room. 

The whole building is shaking, Peter can feel it. He glances nervously up at the ceiling.

“Those matches were my favorite,” the Fire Starter says, a childish pout in his voice.

He sits up gingerly, reaching in his pocket and pulling out a lighter. His thumb expertly slides over the spark wheel and lands on the ignition button, even with the web covering his eyes.

Peter draws in a breath that feels like it rattles down his throat and into his chest. He jams his hands together, aiming for the web shooter buttons. Both lines hit the lighter and he tugs backward, drawing it toward him. It slams into the wall, a few inches away from him, and breaks into multiple pieces.

He sighs in relief, and then starts hacking. His fingers find the edge of his mask, and desperately lift it up over his mouth. It doesn’t do any good. He keeps dredging smoky debris and mucus up his throat. He falls to his hands and knees and lets some of it leak out between coughs.

There’s a sickening crack above him. He doesn’t have to look up to know that the whole place is about to fall.

“It’s been a—pleasure, Spider-Man,” the Fire Starter says.

“Fuck you,” Peter spits.

Everything collapses. Peter rolls, letting his senses dictate the direction, and curls in on himself. Something lands on his back and he huffs in pain. It’s just a beam—could be worse. He pushes it off and stands as the dust settles. 

The space is way smaller than it was, cut in half by pieces of the upper floors. He sees legs sticking out from under one of the structures.

He stares at them for a second and then curses, hobbling over, taking a few breaks on the way to bend over and gag.

He shoves his arms into the small space created between the floor and the layers of metal by the Fire Starter’s body. 

“One, two,” he mutters. “Three.”

He pulls up as hard as he can, screaming in agony. He can feel all of the scabs on his hands ripping back open as they press into the metal. He sticks his foot under and hooks it around the Fire Starter, dragging him out of harm’s way.

He lets the building smash back down and sinks to the ground next to the Fire Starter. The ski-mask is gone and his face is burnt on one side, blisters mottling the skin from his chin up to his hairline. His eyes are closed, clearly unconscious, but there’s still a twisted little grin on his face.

* * *

Peter’s only half-awake by the time he hears repulsors. His head rolls to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of the source.

An Iron Man suit lands next to him.

“Peter?” Tony crouches down, ripping his helmet off.

Peter tries to talk, but a wheeze followed by a bout of weak coughs is the only thing that comes out.

“You’re okay,” Tony says. “Here.”

He pulls the helmet over Peter’s head. For some reason it makes him starts coughing harder, his head falling forward.

Tony pushes it back up, and then nudges Peter’s arms until they’re above his head. 

“Breathe,” he says. “In and out, there you go.”

He looks over at the Fire Starter, eyes narrowing in anger. “Let me guess, you want me to fly him out of here, too.”

Peter didn’t lift half a building off of him for nothing. He nods.

Tony sighs, then he picks Peter up, tucking him against his side. He hesitates by the Fire Starter, and Peter thinks he might just leave him, but he reaches down. He clamps his hand around the Fire Starter’s wrist and takes off. 

They land somewhere. Peter loses track of his surroundings. He doesn’t see Tony anymore—doesn’t see much of anything. Someone takes the Iron Man helmet off—his own mask is thankfully still half-on underneath—and replaces it with an oxygen mask.

His line of sight is only two slits, and everything in them is blurry, spinning. It’s nauseating. Peter closes his eyes and reaches up to remove the mask. A hand blocks it.

“You need that, Spider-Man.”

He bats the hand away and bumps the mask with his fingertips until he’s free of it, then leans over and vomits.

“What happened,” someone snaps. “I leave for two minutes.”

Even though it sounds angry, it’s a good voice. Peter recognizes it.

“M’Stark?”

Something wipes his face off and then the oxygen mask is back on. Peter opens his eyes as far as they will go, which isn’t very far. They feel tight around the edges, close to being swollen shut. Tony’s looking over at him with a ghost of a smile.

“You okay, kid? These paramedics treating you alright?”

“Felt worse.” His voice is muffled by the mask.

“Well that’s—not exactly what I wanted to hear.”

Peter starts to laugh but then doubles over. Each cough makes his chest ache and his throat sting like he’s hacking up pieces of glass.

Tony pulls the mask off until he’s done and then replaces it.

“That’s not really what I wanted to hear either.”

Peter just smiles instead of trying to laugh this time.

“I’ve got a medical team coming to get you, kiddo. Your aunt’s going to meet us at the tower.”

Peter opens his mouth, but the look on Tony’s face stops him from saying anything.

“Don’t you dare,” he says. “I’ve only known you for what—two years? And I’m already getting sick of hearing you say you’re fine when you’re clearly not.”

Peter doesn’t have the energy to fight it, so he just nods and lets his head tip over onto Tony’s shoulder.

“You’re an idiot. A complete nightmare teenager. I don’t know how May puts up with it.”

Tony pauses and Peter cringes, waiting for it to get worse.

“But, you did it,” Tony nudges him gently. “Told you that you didn’t need those sticky hands.”

Peter looks down at them. They’re probably bleeding underneath the layers of his suit and the bandages, worse off than they were before the fight, but Tony’s right.

He learned that Spider-Man was more than a fancy suit a while ago, but maybe he’s more than his powers, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I feel like Peter's suit wouldn't be _this_ bad in fires but it's for the drama of it all, you know?
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://peterparkrr.tumblr.com)


End file.
